


I'd Cast a Spell Over the Midwest.

by Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Cat!Patrick is a sassy fucker, Eventual Romance, Familiar!Patrick, Familiars, M/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Witches, witch!pete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-05-17 02:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14823893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace/pseuds/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace
Summary: There, where the orange tabby once sat, stands a young man, maybe a few years younger than himself and just a tad bit shorter, but not by much. There’s a softness to his body, a warmth to his pale, unmarked skin, there’s a touchable softness to honey brown-blonde hair, and kissable plush pink lips that are turned up into a small knowing smile.And his eyes. Fuck, hiseyes. The most stunning blue-hazel eyes he has ever seen under thick rimmed glasses.Just like the tabby’s“Hello there, Peter,” he starts, a smile on his lips and oceans crashing in his eyes, “my name is Patrick Vaughn Stump, but you can call me Patrick. I’m your familiar.”Familiar?Who the actualfucktrustshimwith afamiliar??...Pete's just a witch just trying to get by with the help of some crystals, some potions, and a temperamental deck of tarot cards.Patrick is his familiar who sees his untapped potential, and is stubborn enough to try to make Pete see it in himself if it's the last thing he'll do.There's nothing in the Spell Books that says a witch and familiar can't fall in love....right?...The WitchAU no one asked for





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> *Waves manically* Hey everyone!! 
> 
> Here it is! The Magic/Witch AU!!
> 
> So, the original plan was to finish one of my WIP and then post this....but yeah, I couldn't wait any longer! This fic has been in the works or a little over a year now, a half-baked idea that I pitched to [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) and it simple grew into this monster of a fic that I'm so seriously in love with, and that I hope you all enjoy too.
> 
> [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) has been the most amazing cheerleader throughout this whole processes and was even so kind enough to MAKE ME ART FOR THIS?!?! ( seriously my first fanart ever by one of my fav people on this planet! I nearly died of happiness. the art work itself is filled with items that are vital to the story later on!) 
> 
> So Yeah, I'm excited, and thrilled, so much so that I've been making moodboards for every chapter to share with you all.
> 
> Also! Special thanks to [ SnitchesAndTalkers ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers) for taking the time to look over this first chapter a while back <3
> 
> Without further to do, enjoy <3

__

_The Fool._

He finds himself staring at image painted on the card, a careless youth, head tilted northwest toward a new horizon and path ahead of him, a simple pack of his belongings hanging neatly on a stick over his shoulder, ready for the adventure. He’s walking to the edge of the cliff overlooking raging waters, blissfully unaware of the dangers that waited him with just one faithful step with the sun shining brightly at his back, lighting the way, paving the journey ahead of him with stunning golden sun rays, even if it leads right over the edge.  It’s a blinding leap of faith, it’s walking the fine line between bravery and stupidity. One false move and it’s a plummet straight into a sea of despair, while the right move leads to glory and roads paved with sunshine gold.

The Fool is the beginning, the start of a journey and unlimited potential. He is the card innocence, the bringer of new beginnings, new journeys, and new opportunities.

“Well, that can’t be fucking right.” Pete scoffs, looking incredulous at the card. He slips the card back into his desk with a huff and shuffles them again, splitting the deck into fours and stacking them up before dividing them once again in half and pulling at the edge of each stack, the cards slipping easily from the pressure of each thumb as the fall over each other in an alternating pattern with a pleasantly calming _flick_ of each card.  

Once the cards are neatly stacked, Pete sets the deck of tarot cards before him, closing his eyes, breathing  deeply, and releasing it slowly, his hand hovering over the cards as he tries to draw on the positive energy, and with willful intent, picks up the first card resting at the top of the stack.

The Fool.

Pete groans as the hand holding the card falls to the table, jostling the spoon in his coffee mug slightly. “What in the ever loving  fuck does this _mean_?” He asks to particularly no one. “New beginnings? Like what?” He sets the card back down and eyes it suspiciously, grabbing his coffee mug and stirring lightly, always once clockwise for luck, twice counter clockwise to get rid of any negative energy, before sipping at the sugar and cream laden creation.

The blind hopefulness of The Fool taunts him as he sets the mug down, and shuffles once more, hoping to yield a different result.

However, Pete’s not so lucky.

“Dude _AGAIN_ ?” He throws The Fool back down on his small coffee table, and slumps back into the chair with a resigned sigh. What the hell _‘New Beginnings_ ’ could possibly be coming his way? Should he be worried? Or perhaps he’s not doing the tarot thing right or reading them correctly…after all, unlike everyone else in his family, a long line of witches and mages with a strong knack of card reading, Pete never quite picked up that talent from his mom’s bloodline.

“You know what?” Pete sighs with annoyed resignation, “Fine, you’re right,” he states with finaility, however the displeasure clear in his voice, speaking to the deck of cards as if it would talk back to him.. “New beginnings? Bring it on. If I’m the Fool today, then I’ll be The _fucking_ Fool.”

He feels like an anomaly, the frustration and the bloom of failure sitting deep within his gut as he looks at the brightly colored card before him. He knows his shouldn’t, his mom had away told him that everyone’s craft manifests in different ways, in different forms, however, it’s hard to accept that as an answer when you’re family has been known for decades, if not _centuries_ , for tarot reading, for drawing their magic from the spells casted and fortunes told with a simple draw of a tarot card. His mom had always said that tarot cards was like reading a book and solving a puzzle at the same time, that reading cards should feel like sliding a key into a lock, the answers and meaning clicking like the tumblers, unlocking clarity, but Pete’s never felt that, instead he’s feels  stuck.

Pete doesn’t see himself as a fortune teller, as a card reader, instead, he finds the same joy and satisfaction that his mother feels in her cards in potions and charm making, in creating sigils and protections spells for those who made need them. That’s where he feels his strongest of all their known crafts, and when he expressed it to his mother, a not just a witch, but a Mage in every right, a powerful and influential figure in Midwestern Council of Magic, she simply smiled and hugged him tightly, pride radiating from her as she cradled his face in her hands.

 _‘Just because you don’t get it, doesn’t make you a bad Witch, Peter. I’m just happy you found your craft, Baby, and that you want to follow it. You have no idea how happy that makes me…_ ’

Pete doesn’t deserve her, but he was happy she understood, and while he had his mother’s love and unconditional support, it didn’t stop others in the council to whisper about Dale Wentz’ black sheep of a son.

Screw them all, he thinks bitterly.

He places the cards back into a neat pile and silently thanks them for their supposed help, just like his mom taught him, however Pete’s finding it hard to be sincere today, but does so anyway before he tucks them into the front pocket of his rundown backpack, littered with colorful patches and even more vibrantly hued buttons and pins, then continues on with his morning rituals as he gets ready to go to the market before starting his day at the shop; he waters the herbs and plants he has sitting neatly in odd looking coffee mugs bathing in the sun on the windowsill, along with placing a Fiji plastic bottle filled with tap water from the sink next to the plants, ‘ _Sun Water_ ’ written with Sharpie in Pete’s messy handwriting on a  sticky note along with a a drawing of what appears to be a geometrical sun slapped on the front. He places colorful crystals around the bottles and along the windowsill, the sunlight casting a beautiful glow to each crystal and making the water glimmer; Pete can’t help but stare and smile at the sight. When finished and done, he makes his way to the door, snatching up his backpack on the way and slinging it over his shoulder, however not before grabbing a dry erase marker from one of the pockets.

“Let’s see what New Beginnings I get myself into,” he mutters to himself as he draws a sigil of protection on the whiteboard hanging on his door, breathing deeply as his hand comes over drawing, focusing his energy and intent on it.

Content with his work, Pete sighs as he slips on a earphone and pockets his phone as opens the door and shuts it firmly behind him, the lock clicking loudly into place. The sigil he had just drawn moments before suddenly dancing in its own subtle way, the ink appearing to come to life, spreading and almost sizzling with the magic Pete had just given in, before bleeding out into the edges, seeping out from the whiteboard creating a seal of protection and safety around the door from the inside.

…

Pete’s shop is nothing special, he’ll be the first to tell you that, but five years, Pete has is clientele. It’s a fairly easy going shop, and Pete attributes some of its’ charm to the old apothecary and a vintage candy shop feel of the space. It’s unique in its own little way, and its friendly and curious enough to draw in visitors of all kinds, those magic using, and those not.

It’s simple shop-front form the outside, a dark stained colonial styled door with glass panels under a simple awning covering the length of the front, the shop’s small wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze, reading _Clandestine_ , the letters looking as if they were directly burned into the wood by a master craftsman, a gift from one of Pete’s friends when he first opened the shop.  There’s a rather large display windows to the left of the door, Pete’s wares and goods on display, as well as simple, yet intricate decal lettering proclaiming _‘Handcrafted Potions and Natural Remedies, Charms, Essential oils, Candles, Sigils, Readings, and Elixirs_ .’ The simple bell above the door chimes gently as Pete finally unlocks it and pushes the door open and then relocks the door once he’s in, the sign on the other side of the glass still reading ‘ _Sorry, we’re closed’_.  

Pete’s footfall cause beautiful dark wood floors to creak as he walks to place his purchases from the market on the counter, careful of the display cases of precious stones and charms, old jars labeled in his messy scrawl and filled with various herbs and plants lined up neatly on a shelf behind one of the display cases.

There are baskets and small table displays filled with vials of oils, soothing rocks with sigils painstakingly carved into each one, books upon books of recipes and remedies using herbs and oils, along with a variety of pre-made ointments and salves, along with other trinkets and wears.

The best part of it all? It was right below his loft apartment, just a flight or two of stairs away from his bed, kitchen, and Spell Room.

Pete loves his shop, and nothing could convince him otherwise.

He unplugs his headphone from his phone and turns up the music, a radio pop song coming over the speaker of his phone as he goes through his purchases and finds the bundle of dry sage he brought from Ms. Garwell this morning. He’s humming along to a song as he fishes a lighter out of his pocket and lights the end of the dried bundle of white sage, setting it in a clay bowl to begin to smoke as he puts away the rest of his buys.

“Alright,” the dark-haired witch sighs, once done, grabbing the bundle and the bowl. Pete clears his throat as he glances around the shop. “All bad vibes, shitty juju, and anything remotely stupid trying to mess up my day,” he announces  as he walks around the shop with the sage, using the smoke the cleanse the space before opening, “Get the fuck out.” It’s a little odd, he’s not going to lie, but mentally he’s saying his own little cleansing spell as the smoke drifts into every corner of the shop, as the grey wisps of smoke dissipate, there a sense of calm that is left in its wake that Pete enjoys, he just wishes the smell wasn’t so… _pungent_ for a lack of better terms, but hey, for a clean aura for the shop, he’s not gonna complain.

His last stop is the door and the storefront windows, wafting the cleansing smoke into the corners and around the door, before he snuffs out the burning sage

When he’s satisfied with his work, he flips over the sign at the door, signaling that he was open for business, but finds himself stopping when he catches a glimpse of an orange tabby sitting neatly on the sidewalk, eyes bight and sea blue green, looking in, but there’s something about the cat’s eyes, something that causing a bloom of warmth to rise in his chest as he meets blue-green eyes straight on. They remind him of sand and summer days, the salt and cool of the ocean water, and the calm of crashing waves on the shore. But... there’s a tug, a pull almost, a chemical reaction, and magnetic  attraction…its…its waves being pulled by the moon, but he’s being pulled, and for some reason he doesn’t feel afraid, it feels….it feels like warm and safety and… _peace_...

He feels like he’s riding on the edge of the cliff but he’s not afraid to fall…

Something snaps out of him of his trance, a shock of reality that send Pete stumbling back with as heaving gasp of air, as if he being held underwater, his lungs burning for oxygen as he returns to the present. “What…what the fuck?” Pete gasps, his hand desperately searching his pocket for Crystal Quartz he always keeps on his person at all time, his shield and protection from the hex he’s sometimes thrown, but this….this doesn’t feel like a hex, it felt different, so fucking different, Pete can’t bring himself to place it.

When he goes back to the door, he undoes the deadbolts and swings the door open, the chimes he has above the door singing gently as he walks out the shop and frantically searches outside for the orange tabby that was there a moment ago.

There’s no sign of the cat, just a woman waiting by a bus stop down the street, and a what appears to be a guy in a fedora walking the other way…

But no orange cat.

  
....

Art by Flames_and_Jade


	2. Two of Cups

> __

The rest of the morning goes off without so much of a hitch, and no sight of the orange tabby from before, but Pete’s still on guard.

He’s unfortunately all too familiar with hexes in disguise, of curses hidden in plain sight; it wouldn’t be the first or the last time that Pete’s been a target of another witch’s hex, be it a vengeful ex ( _and oh the many of those he’s had in his 30 years_ ) or a bitter magic that he somehow managed to piss off ( _he swears, he didn’t mean to piss on some mage’s stoop...he was drunk for Spirit’s sake! How was he supposed to know that the door in the alleyway by the bar he pissed by was the door to her Reading Room?_ ).

Despite where they originate from, or the person who cast them, hexes have a distinguishable aura to them when they’re around. It feels like a heavy blanket weighing on your shoulders, something sitting in the center of your chest, the hair standing on its end. It’s a dark menacing cloud floating in the distance, dark and looming, the threat of torrential rains and winds just on the horizon. Sometimes Pete can fight it off, can ward away a hex with a few practiced sigils and a spell, but others, all he can do is wait it out.

Not the most effective way to handle a hex, he knows, but sometimes experiencing a hex can be a learning experience, and Pete has _definitely_ learn from many in the past.

As he busies himself around the shop, he finds himself thinking back to the tabby. The furry little dude definitely didn’t feel like a hex, but at the same time, it’s better to be safe than sorry. After the cat vanished into the street, Pete went back inside the stop and fashioned a protection ward out of a smooth black tourmaline, carving his own sigil for protection into the polished black crystal, raw black tourmaline would work better, but for the sake of time, it would do.

When the crystal is completed, decorated with a hastily carved sigil, a ‘S’ shaped swirl with three lines crossing through various parts, dots decorating some spaces with practiced precision, he places it into a small muslin bag with sage, the small package fitting neatly into the palm of his left hand, focusing his magic on it until he feels his palm a familiar warmth, the crystal and sachet being charged with his own magic, his own energy. He breathes deeply, closing his eyes as he wills himself to relax, as the warmth his palms grows, letting his mind focus on the intent of his little sachet. It takes no more than a moment, but he can already feel the gentle wave of his spell working.

Pete sighs as he opens his eyes, looking at the trinket in his left palm and slipping it into his left pocket. _Energy comes from the left side, that's where you need the most protection,_ he remembers his mother telling him, her voice gentle in his ear as he lets out a long breath as he looks at the door, waiting for a tuft of orange to reappear.

It doesn’t.

Pete sighs as he finds himself restocking some items around the shop. He’s refilling some jars with freshly purchased dried herbs from his morning visit to the market. Pete’s thinking about the cat, and now, thinking about his mother. He needs to call her soon, he promises himself, at least to check-in on how everything is back home, how his mother is handling the counsel of idiots and bigots. He knows she worries about him, but she also knows that its best to let him call, and not to badger her oldest son. He’ll call her soon, maybe he can go and visit, pick up some incense while he’s visiting her. Pete figures ‘soon’ might just be when the shop closes for the day. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

As he turns around, thinking about some ideas wants to run by his mother later on the phone, he misses the curious peek of a small head peek through the edge of the storefront window, blue-hazel eyes blinking slowly as a tail flicks curiously behind the small body.

_Soon._

**...**

The day passes easily.

Many of Pete’s usual customers come to visit, like Mr. Roberts for his usual refill on his pain relieving elixir, and Delilah from the flower shop who usually comes in for protection potion to ward away insects from the shops vibrant flowers. It’s his regular, comfortable flow: few orders essential oil blends, potions, elixirs, gemstone trinkets, candles or incenses. Pete also greets a few curious visitors who stroll around the space, eying candles and crystal gems with wide and wondering eyes, such as the two young college girls currently in his shop a eyeing the various sachets of lavender and rose quarts bracelets while he worked on a concoction for Agatha, another local witch and a loyal customer who always seemed to have a great appreciate for Pete’s remedies.

“If you ladies have any questions on anything or need something custom- made feel free to let me know,” Pete said with a charming grin to the girls, both of them smiling and blushing as the whispered to each other.

“Oh Peter, you best be careful with the charm of yours,” Agatha smiled as she playfully swatted his arm with a weathered hand as he worked behind the counter and brought down an variety of glass jars filled certain herbs, various leaves, and a large glass vase of what appeared to be oil.

“Hey, you gotta do whatever you gotta do to bring in customers,” he says easily with a grin. “Besides, my good looks and charm keeps you coming back,” he teases playfully at the older woman, he reaches over and pinches his cheek, causing him to laugh. “Watch yourself, Witchling,” she chuckles as she sips the peppermint tea Pete has brewed for her while he worked.

“Aren’t I twelve years too old to be called a witchling,” he retorts with a smile, a smirk clear in his voice.

“Darling, I’ve known you since you were as tall as my knee, looking at your mother as if she was Goddess incarnate. Despite what a fine Hedge Witch you’ve become, I’ll always see that little seven year old witchling playing under the watchful eye of your mother’s familiar,” she recalls with a warmth in her voice that reminds him of his grandmother. “And besides you have a knack for making the only oil that helps my aching joints! Seeing your handsome face is just a perk.”

“I’m flattered Aggie!” Pete laughs loudly, a grin on his face as he places a couple a dried leaves from two varying jars into a white mortar along with a small piece of cinnamon bark and began to crush the mixture with a pestle. “As for the oil, it’s an old family recipe. Nothing a little eucalyptus, mint and cinnamon can’t cure if you ask me.” When the dried leaves are reduced to powder, he add the oil and mixes with the pestle until combined, letting some of his magic flow into the mixtures to help aid reducing some of Agatha’s pain, a magical little boost if you will. When he finishes up he carefully pours the concoction into a clear palm-sized glass bottle, sticking a label on the bottle and scribbling instructions and a sigil for good measure, for safe keeping and healing.  “Her you go Aggie. You know the drill, Beautiful. Just rub a little of the oil on the pain once a night,” he smiles, handing the bottle over to the woman.

The woman nods and smiles at the witch, taking a crisp twenty dollar bill from her purse. “Keep the change, dear, and thank you for this and the peppermint tea, it helped defog the mind right up. I’ll see you next week! I might need something for my husband; he might be coming down with something.”

“Of course, just let me know, Aggie. Give Dmitri my regards.” There’s a grandmotherly squeeze of his hand before she walks out, the chime signaling her exit as his attention turns back to the girls still in the shop. “Can I help you ladies find anything in particular?”

One of the girls, the blonde with warm chocolate eyes, looks at the other, a brunette and jade-like eyes, dark shadows under her eyes coloring the softness of her skin. The blonde gives her friend a gentle nudge, before giving her a pointed look, peeking Pete’s curiosity.

“Actually yes,” starts the blonde.

“Iris,” starts the jade eyed girl, looking nervous, “Um, no, it’s oka-”

“Oh hush Nora,” Iris, the blonde, says easily. “What do you have that helps with insomnia? Nora here,” she motions to the girl at her side, “Has been having trouble sleeping, like maybe an hour or two a night, and we’re kinda…desperate, I guess,” she ends softly, her eyes filled with concern as the other girl, Nora avoid Pete’s gaze, fingers playing idly with the smooth stones in the basket they were looking through.

Pete takes a closer look at Nora, and he can see what her friend is concerned about. He sees the dimness in her eyes, the way the green isn’t as vibrant as they’re meant to be, he notices the way her shoulder slump from exhaustion, the shadows under her eyes dark bruises of the battle she’s losing on a daily.

It feels all too relatable to him.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he speaks gently to Nora, who shyly turns to look at him. “How long has this been going on?”

Nora shrugs before she speaks her voice soft, exhaustion lacing every word. “Honestly, like maybe two weeks now that it’s gotten this bad,” she explains. “I’ve always has trouble sleeping, it’s just gotten worse this last month, but these last two weeks, it’s been hell. I’m just not sure what to do anymore.”

Iris nods beside her, liking her arm with one of Nora’s. “She’s tried all those little tips and tricks, like doing the milk and honey thing, chamomile, taking meds, but nothing seems to stick. I’ve, umm, _we’ve_ heard about you through the grapevine,” Iris confesses, tucking a lock of blonde behind her ear. “We figured you might be out next best bet, she’s basically running on fumes.” Nora nodded beside her, sighing.

Pete gives the two girls a nod of understanding, “I totally get you, the insomnia thing,” his mind briefly takes him back to the endless nights where his mind doesn’t let him sleep, when the noise in his head is far too loud, when nothing about sleeping feels right, when instead, his brain betrays him and fights it off with all his might, Pete becoming an unwilling player to this body’s and mind’s constant war. “It fucking sucks, man, but,” he says with a softness in his voice, his eyes, feeling his magic beginning to spark. “I might have just the thing for you.” The girls perk up, eyes wide and turning hopeful. “Give me a few minutes and let me whip up something for you. Is that okay?”

They reassure him so, and he sets off back to his counter. He has an idea, and when Pete Wentz has an idea, he’s like a damn dog with a bone: _he won’t let it go_. He kneels behind the counter, in search of his backpack from earlier. A grin comes over his face when he finds it. He fumbles with it for a moment, turning it in his hands and he searches the outside of it. He knows he put it somewhere, he just can’t remember...

His fingers dance over the many pins and buttons decorating the exterior, until he finds exactly what he’s looking for. _‘Ha! There you are…’_ he grins as he cheers quietly to himself. Tan fingers move quickly to work off a certain pin, a bright and colorful enamel pink stars peeking though the black and silver of the rest of the pin. It was in the shape of a book, partly opened, an eye decorating the cover with the words Spell Book written in a neat little script, as pink stars decorate it.

Once the pin his in his palm, he waves another hand over it. As he does so, a heavy weight suddenly rests where the lightweight pin once was; now in his palm is a book, about the size of a binder, about three inches thick. The cover the book dressed in soft grey leather, worn and used, the pages a soft shade of aging yellow. The pages are splattered with colors, vibrantly colored post-it notes peaking through the pages, as Pete rises from behind the counter and places the book on the table, beginning to flip until he finds his desired page.

Pete’s a proud witch, but by no means did that mean he’s conventional, at least to other’s standards. Keeping your grimoire on your backpack as a pin?   _Why not_. Pete was never one to follow traditional magik principals to begin with, but keeping your Spell Book in plain sight? He’s certain the elders would be having coronaries if they were to see Pete, he could practically here them talk down to him, mock him for his brashness, his carelessness. Screw what they thought, besides, carrying the damn thing as a pin is so much _easier_ than lugging around a heavy ass book, if you ask him.

 He flips through the pages filled with his own messy scrawl, every page littered with cut-and- paste pictures, crudely sketched sigils and runes, and neon bright sticky notes plastered throughout, every small square a colorful speck of confetti sprinkled within the aging pages, until he finds what he’s looking for.

 _Insomnia- For When Sleep Seems Impossible_ , is written on the top of the desired page in blue and purple,  blue and orange post-its scribbled with tips, extra notes, and reminders stick at odd angles on the following handful of pages, each one with a blue smudge of market on the corner of the page, Pete’s one simple key, indicating on each page a different potion, spell, elixir, and recipes written with his own hand that can help with insomnia, his own personal guide to help his own sleepless nights, things that work for him, and things that didn’t, but did help with others. Documented on slightly yellowing pages are his spells, his notes, his keys, and his guide.

He flips through the section of pages, back and forth until he settles on a potion for Nora, as well as spell sachet for good measure. Anything is worth a shot for the poor girl.

It doesn’t take him long to gather what he needs, a small amber colored glass cylinder roll-on vial, and a handful of oils for this specific potion, a potion that Pete had concocted for himself years ago to help ease his racing mind and drift into the land of sleep. He works quickly and with a familiarity that comes with making the potion, make sure that intent is laced into every step, every drop, after all, magik is nothing without it. 

There’s intent and focus as Pete extracts oil from every vial, lavender to relax the senses, vetiver to ease the stress, frankincense to find one’s balance and stability , myrrh to cleanse the soul, and cedarwood sooth the mind. Every drop that goes into the cylinder vial is infused with intent, steep with a touch of Pete’s magik. He fills the vial to the brim with almond oil before attaching the rollerball head and screwing on the cap. He rolls the vile between his palms to mix it, letting giving the vile one last charge, a bit more intent before setting it to the side, pleased with his work.

He moves on to the next task, the sachet. He flips the page of his grimoire and finds the list he’s made of herbs that help with sleep, a small description beside every word. Pete works easily, his movements intricate and precise like clockwork; creating potions and remedies comes naturally, letting his magik flow into this creations feels like he’s making something for himself, the process itself feels, almost cathartic, if you will, a simple process that Pete doesn’t have to over think, just _do_. It’s a steady three-fourth waltz, his heart keeping time to every move he makes, a dance that comes to his so naturally. It’s the ease of fetching a carved Beech wood bowl and a simple wooden skewer, dipping the tip of the skewer into the vial of lavender oil, and drawing a sigil for sleep. _My sleep is deep and restful_ , Pete chants silently as he lets the skewer glide along the bottom of the bowl, the lavender oil being used as ink as he paints the intricately drawn symbol, the same symbol on a light blue sticky note on the opened page of his grimoire, _‘this one works best’_ scribbled at the bottom of the post-it in pink pen.

When complete, takes the smooth wooden bowl in his palm, turns from his work space at the front counter and faces the jar lined mahogany shelves that crawl up the length of the wall behind him. He moves purposely looking from jar to jar for the right mix of dried herbs. A pinch of calendula and chamomile, a dash of catnip, a generous helping of lavender buds, and a touch of rosemary make their way into the bowl. He takes a pestle and gently presses down, breakup up the herbs with care, just enough to bruise and mix with the small bit of oil in the bowl.

Pete notices the girls walking over the counter, curiosity dancing in their eyes, drawing them near as he finishes with his work.

Pale purple shards and soft pink fragments are added to the mix, amethyst and rose quartz crystal chips that Pete’s bathed in moon water just an extra little boost for help, and it’s done. He takes the content in the small wooden bowl and spoons them into a small cotton muslin drawstring bag, knotting the sachet off securely.

“Sorry about the wait, but it’s all done and ready to go,” he smiles over to Nora and Iris as they move closer. Pete takes out a plain white label, takes a pen from his back pocket and writes _Sandman’s Call_   before placing is around the amber vial. “So,” he begins to explain, holding the glass roll-on vial out to Nora. “I want you to dab this on your wrists and temples every night before you go to sleep,” he says gently. “It’s an essential oil potion, all the oils in there are like supposed to help with like sleep and relaxation, it’s best used after you shower.”

Nora nods as she takes the bottle from Pete, unscrewing the top, to take a whiff, her eyes fluttering shut as she inhales. “It smells like lavender, and, earthy?” she observes. As she exhales, Pete notices the small slump of her shoulders, the softness in them after just one quick whiff. Just from that, he’s sure it just might work for her.

“Yeah it has some frankincense and myrrh in there, which help relax the body and mind,” he says easily. “I’m gonna ask you to do something silly, but just try it, okay? When you rub the oil into your skin, I want you to imagine yourself sleeping.”

“That does sound silly,” Iris grins as Nora passes her the vial and she inhales gently as well. Pete only shrugs. “I know, but trust me, it’ll help the effect.” While Pete infused the potion with his own intent, spells and potions always seem to work better with the user adds their own intent. “It’s called intent, so using something with a purpose, so like, when you do use it, make sure that you always think about why your using it. That way, you’re kinda _willing_ the potion to work.”

“Isn’t that how magik works?” asks Iris softly, with a small knowing smile, which Pete can’t help but return with his own stupid grin. Local witches know of his shop, most of his clientle are of the healing and magikal arts after all, but sometime he does get the curious non-magikal that are interested in his wears. It looks like Iris must have hear about him from another witch, more than likely being a young witch in the making herself, as not everyone knows about intent, but those with bloodlines were born with an inkling of it.

“That’s exactly how magik works.”

He continues to pass Nora the sachet he made, giving her simple instructions of placing it under her pillow or in the pillow case for safe keeping, explaining the herbs and crystals he’s added into this mix. “So the amethyst helps with stress and helps filter negative energy, like nightmares and intrusive thoughts. Rose quartz kinda does the same. It gets rid of that negative energy. It also helps heal and bring sleep.” He gives the sachet to Nora before continuing. “I want you to sleep with the sachet and use the roll-on for about two weeks, give it some time to work. If after two weeks you’re still having trouble sleeping, I’ll cook up something else for you, free of charge.”

“You sound confident about these two,” Iris grins as she looks over at the inked witch, who simply shrugs, grin still etched onto his face. “Those are my own personal mixes, they’ve helped me whenever my insomnia rears its ugly ass head.”

The girls thank him after he charges them, fifteen dollars for a goodnight’s rest. “Let me know if it works,” Pete says as he passes Nora her change.

“Thank you!” And with that, the shop is empty. 

He cleans up the work space, placing the oils back where they belong, and cleaning up the bowl and pestle with ease. The shop is quiet other than the gentle way of chimes outside the door with the afternoon breeze. Pete smiles as he feels a calm rush of serenity coming over him as he tidies up, leaving his phone on the counter, letting music float into the empty space as moves around.

When he’s done cleaning, he saves his hand over his grimoire, the thick leather bound book returning to its simpler form of an enamel pin. When Pete fastens it back onto his backpack, he catches sight of the pack or tarot cards tucked neatly into the front pocket. There’s a gentle pull from them, as if they beckon him, tapping into his magik.

“You’re acting strange today,” he mutters under his breath as he eyes the cards before picking them up, the weight of them solid in his hand. While he might not be proficient in tarot reads, it doesn’t mean he lacks the connection with his cards.

There’s something about the way they sit in his hand that feels alive, it’s an odd sensation but it’s a sensation that he’s familiar with none the less. “I’m guessing you want to tell me something, huh.” He shuffles the cards, the _flick_ of them passing through his thumbs as they fall over each other in perfect sync. He cuts them once, cuts them twice, another shuffle of the cards and the slide of each card from his fingertips flicking into a neat little stack.

He breathes as his palm covers the stack of cards, letting his magic flow into the deck, his whiskey brown eyes looking curious. “I’m all eyes and ear,” he breathes, “What’s going on?” Something tells him to pick up two cards, to place them face on in front of him. When he flips the first, it’s a familiar sight, _The Fool_. Pete groans just at the sight of the card. “I get it, man! New beginnings, I totally get it.” Feeling more than a little annoyed, Pete flips the other card and is rewarded with a new addition: the _Two of Cups_. The card depicts a couple, a man and a woman facing one another love and commitment clear in their eyes, each holding a cup in their hand. It appears that they are in some kind of ceremony, a wedding perhaps.  In the space between the couple, two snakes intertwine, crawling up towards the blue sky, towards a lion’s head flocked by a pair of wings—the Caduceus of Hermes.

If Pete remembers correctly, the Two of Cups is a representation of a relationship; it shows the beauty and power that is created upon the unity of two souls with a similar goal. The card reflects balance, mutual respect and harmony.

The appearance of the card confuses Pete. In a normal reading, it usually points to the beginnings of a romantic relationship; however, the dark-haired witch gets an inkling of a feeling that for this particular draw, it may not be completely true.

“So, someone’s coming?” Pete asks to his empty shop. “Is this the new beginning you’ve been telling me about?” And suddenly the gentle pull of the cards was gone, leaving Pete feeling cold and empty, cut off and stranded. He groans, letting his head _thud_ against the counter.“ _Oh, come on_!! We actually had something going here, dude!”

The cards a silent once again, and while Pete feels a bit betrayed after what was starting to be a good conversation with his cards, he’s more intrigued than anything now.

The Fool. The Two of Cups.

Someone’s brining him a new beginning, he just doesn’t know who or what to look for now.

He looks at the tarot cards and sighs.

Why does he feel he’s left with more questions than answers….

**…**

More customers trickle in as the day goes by. He makes more potions, a few more sachets, and an elixir or two, his usual steady flow for his unique little shop.

It’s an hour until closing when it happens.

He’s cleaning up his work desk when the chimes outside his door rang loudly, the sound of bells crashing, not the gentle timber he’s used to. There’s no sign of a heavy wind, no harsh gust of air, the leaves aren’t dancing manically in the wind.

Pete’s about to question, about to go look outside, and inspect…

But Pet’s frozen stone still when he _feels_ it.

It’s a wave of static washing over him; it’s something electrifying in the air, a clap of thunder after the brilliance of lightening shaking his every core, making every hair stand on end. It feels similar, like the event from the morning, it’s calling him like a siren out to sea, enchanting him with a lullaby, of songs strung with gold and lapis blue. It’s like a crash of the ocean on the shore, spring rain soaking his skin, it’s singing to him, beckoning him to join fall in time with the water, the waves, the rain…

It’s gotta be hex, it has to be, but but….damnit it doesn’t _feel_ like one. Whatever it is, it’s calling on his magik, pulling at his soul, drawing him into the currents, into the store, and all he can feel is a sea blue and a meadow of sunlit gold. There’s no malice, just rain and waves and sun.

It’s… _it’s_ …

Pete shakes himself from the strange trance, breaks from the storm and the ocean waves, and back to reality. He mutters a quick spell under his breath and with a subtle wave of his hand, he placed a protective spell over himself, fisting his the black tourmaline from this morning, the crystal deep into his pocket , and focuses energy into them for an extra boost of protection.

He stands at the ready, to fight to protect what is his, to fight off any hex cast his way. Pete’s eyes are narrows, warm whiskey hardening into amber. He’s on guard, heart racing and magik buzzing underneath his skin, ready to attack, as he observes his surroundings,  looking for shadowy tendrils or suspicious looking figures, a cursed one-eyed crow, a hex infected dog, …but he sees none.

The door to the shop suddenly opens a gentle swing of the heavy door that closes in an instant.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, his voice firm but nerves like live wires, buzzing, turning, alive, and ready to spark and shock and attack.

_Meow._

Pete casts his hand out in the direction of the sound, ready to attack; eyes narrow as he notices a familiar orange tabby cat from this morning sitting patiently in the middle of his shop.

“You again,” Pete says lowly, raising his hand a higher at the intruder. He’s waiting for the hex or whatever curse the cat might be to take effect, to come racing at him, to attack him. But it doesn’t.

After a moment, something inside of Pete relents, the guard he’s keeping up eases as his hand lowers. Maybe…it’s not going to attack. Pete’s still on the defensive, there’s no doubt about that, and perhaps it’s just that, a simple cat. He’s about to scoff at his stupidity for overreacting, about to attack a common alley cat that clearly doesn’t look like it wouldn’t do anything to Pete other than scratch his hand half-way to next week.

But that still doesn’t stop him.

“Guess you’re not a hex after all, little buddy,” Pete sighs as his hand lowers completely, kneeling on the floor. “You don’t feel like one, at least.” He reaches down to stroke the cat’s orange fur before it gracefully avoids his hand with a soft trill, it’s hazel-blue eyes looking up at him with something that Pete can’t help but feels _human_ …

Pete stands, taken back by the familiarly of the eyes, cursing his stupidly for walking right into a trap when he feels the second static wave come over him. He’s about to cast a curse of his own, except he’s once again frozen. He’s expecting the feeling of rain, the pull of a riptide dragging him into the raging currents of the sea, wanting to drown him, destroy him, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, this time it’s feel warm and pleasant, it’s the summer sun on tan skin on a lake shore, crystal clear, still waters. It’s the vivid greens and smoother river rocks. The coolness of the lake surrounding him, it almost feels like….

  _Home_.

“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III…”

Pete slowly blinks back to reality when he hears his full name, the voice of which it fell from rich-honey smooth, deep, but sweet at the same time, a smile clear in every syllable. The sound and cadence of the voice is a blanket of summer warmth that drapes over him. Fucking hell, he wants that voice ringing in his ear, he want to hear it sing, wants the voice to ground him during his darkest day, want it to lull him to sleep when the stars and the moon are the only things that keep him company in the inky black dead of night.

He wants to bottle it up and make it into the perfection potion.

There, where the orange tabby once sat, stands a young man, maybe a few years younger than himself and just a tad bit shorter, but not by much. There’s a softness to his body, a warmth to his pale, unmarked skin, there’s a touchable softness to honey brown-blonde hair , and kissable plush pink lips that are turned up into a small knowing smile.

And his eyes. _Fuck_ , his fucking _eyes_. The most stunning blue-hazel eyes he has ever seen under thick rimmed glasses, lapis hued irises remind him of the ocean waves crashing on the sandy shore, of rushing water and riverbeds. It wants to pull him in and take him under the raging current, and Pete feels more than willing to let himself fall in. But above all that…

_His eyes are just like the tabby’s…._

Pete’s still frozen, but his defensive still up despite his body and mind’s sudden natural instinct to relax and feel at ease just at the sight of the newcomer’s eyes. He’s ready to strike if this is just another witch in disguise, hell it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been wrong….

But just like before nothing happens.

The tabby, _no_ , the _man_ before him just looks at him, a light shining in his eyes as he continues to smiles over at Pete before lips part and velvet honey pours from his lips with every passing word.

“Hello there, Peter,” he starts, a smile on his lips and oceans crashing in his eyes, “my name is Patrick Vaughn Stump, but you can call me Patrick. I’m your familiar.”

If Pete’s body was warmed by the summer sun before, there was now a  shock chill of being dosed with ice at the words that came from the delightful curve of petal pink lips as the realization hit him, the gravity of the other’s words finally registering in his overloaded brain.

 _Familiar_? Who the actual _fuck_ trusts _him_ with a _familiar_?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned on posting this on Sunday, my birthday, but what was just supposed to do a few minor edits, but somehow it turned into a whole four extra pages worth of words. So....yay? 
> 
> Anyways, this update is supposed to be the equivalent of sharing birthday cake with all the beautiful writers and readers, but it's a day tardy....oops lol. 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience! Between life and work getting in the way, finding time to write and update has been tough but with tons of encouragement from serveral friends, this little chapter is finally seeing sunlight! I adore the fic to pieces and I can't wait for you all to read whats coming up next <3
> 
> As always thanks you for reading! Feel free to leave comments or kudos, or if you want to find me on [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Thanks for reading and see you soon!


	3. Eight of Pentacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Finally got this chapter up! 85% of this chapter was written yesterday in the coolest coffeeshop/bar in New Orleans called “The Vintage” on a rather rainy day with the lovely [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade). This chapter wouldn’t be anything without her endless support and cheerleading :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

__

Pete does the only rational thing any person in his situation would do—

Call his mother.

He stutters an excuse to the cat/familiar/Patrick before scurrying into his back room, which is nothing more than a dusty corner in the farthest part of his shop concealed by a dark velvet curtain and those ridiculous 70s inspired hanging beads. Pushing the curtain and beads aside, he tries to will himself from having a full blown panic attack while fumbling for his phone, and pressing it to his ear the second he presses his mother’s contact.

His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, pounding in his ears as we waits, rocking on his heels as he does so. Not even a few rings and he’s greeted by a familiar voice, deep and soothing in all the way he remembers, the voice that reminds him of mornings picking herbs, and vibrant smelling incense.

_ “Pete! How are you doing, sweetie?” _ Her voice is the finest, softest blanket, wrapping him in warmth and comfort, and peace, and man does he need that more than ever right now.

“Um, yeah I’m...I think I’m good, but um…,” he struggles to find the words he needs to say, his mind racing with  _ ‘This can’t be real _ ’ and  _ ‘I tested the wrong fucking potion and i must be hallucinating,’  _ making it so incredibly difficult to come out with anything even remotely coherent. Until finally, it did. “Mom, umm...I-I think I have a familiar…?” He says, almost as if he doesn’t quite believe it himself, which really, in all honest, he doesn’t.

He’s waiting for the laughter on the other end of the line, but nothing comes after another minute. Only shocked, unbelieving, unnerving silence. 

_ “....What did you say?” _

He lets out a trembling breath, his heart stuttering, hands shaking as he runs them through his hair and over his eyes. “There’s….Mom there was a cat that I’ve been seeing all damn day and it walked into my shop and and fucking morphed into a human and told me he’s my familiar…”

He’s waiting for the  _ “Peter you’re ridiculous’ _ or even the  _ ‘How is that even possible.” _ He’s waiting for the disbelief, the shame, anything at this point because there’s no way, there’s no actual, unconceivable way that he, Pete Wentz,  the fuck up of the Midwestern Coven, the failure son of Dale Wentz, could even possibly have a...

_ “Oh my, Pete…,”  _ Starts his mother over the line. He's ready for the scolding words, ready for the doubt… _ “Sweetheart that’s absolutely wonderful!” _

Okay, maybe he wasn’t ready for that reaction.

“Huh?”

_ “Peter this is so incredible! I knew something wonderful was going to happen, the cards never lie! A familiar!” _ He looks at his phone in shock as she’s heard speaking in the distance to someone.  _ “Eva! Did you hear that?! Pete met his familiar!” _ A screech of his mother’s own owl familiar is heard in the background, he shouldn’t be surprised that Evanora is with his mother, she always is. 

There’s a bit of moment in the distance, a sudden ruffle of feathers on the other line, and then another voice comes over the line just as his mother’s gentle but excited laughter rings in the background. “ _ Oh, how _ exciting,” drones a well-known voice from Pete’s childhood, low and with little emotion, the voice of Evanora, his mother’s familiar is forever stoic and regal, smooth as marble and just as cold, but there’s a warmth to it that Pete could never explicitly explain. Where his mother is absolutely jubilant and warm, Evanora is...well, somewhat opposite; apathetic to those who don’t know her, callous but never cruel... “ _ We can’t  _ wait _ to meet them,” _ well, except for possibly now, there's something deadly, if not menacing in her voice. Pete can’t fight the chill that runs through his spine at the tone of it, not that Eva has ever harmed him or anyone before, in fact, his mother’s familiar, if anything, is protective over her mage’s children, having a particular soft spot for Pete since his magic manifested when he was seven.

That still doesn’t make her words any less terrifying.

_ “Oh goodness! We can’t wait to see the two of you during Solstice!”  _ His mother’s voice returns over the phone.  _ “What’s his name? Where is he, darling?” _

“Um yeah, uh...,” Pete fumbles, still in shock over his mother’s reaction and the general ordeal. “P-Patrick...he’s actually in the other room...we like seriously meet like 10 minutes ago after he like morphed into a dude...kinda?”

_ “Peter!” _ Scolds his mother,  _ “This time is vital for bonding, son! Why are you talking with me when you should be spending time with him!” _

“But-but mom!,” he whines, “I’m in no shape able to even be trusted with a pet goldfish, much less a familiar!” He’s not pouting, he swears he’s not.

_ “Go talk to him,” _ she says firmly, patience laced in her voice. He can practically see her smile in his mind’s eye.  _ “Embrace this sweetie, this is such a gift that you deserve tenfold. A familar means so so much. I’d always knew you’d be chosen to be a mage.” _ There’s a pause before he hears her.  _ “Evanora, my dear, there’s no need to sharpen your talons, I’m sure Pete’s familiar is wonderful.” _ There’s a rather disgruntled hoot that sounds in the distance, signaling that Evanora returned to her Owl form.  _ “Anyways, go and learn. This is such a gift Pete. Embrace it. I’ll talk to you in a few days. Love you!” _ And with that she hangs up.

With a sigh, he pockets his phone, his hands coming over to rub over his face.  _ ‘What the actual fuck am I going to do,’  _ he thinks before groaning a quietly as he can before pulling back the curtain to reconvene with the tabby familiar, and maybe, just maybe convince him that perhaps he must be confused…

Except that as soon as he pushes back the beds and velvet curtain, he’s face to face with unimpressed oceanside eyes beneath black rimmed frames, a honey blond brow arched rather incredulously. Pete swears he doesn’t yelp, he  _ swears _ .

“Well, they sound lovely,” Patrick says simply.

“How the—? You heard all of that?!”

Patrick looks exasperated as he rolls his eyes. “It’s a curtain, dumbass. I heard everything.”

The dark haired witch at least has the decency to at least look embarrassed, the tan of his cheeks burning with a shade of red. “Y-you weren’t supposed to hear all of that. It’s just...um...yeah…” he stumbles, looking away as he scratches the back of his neck, having been caught acting like a child, calling his own mother.

Patrick shrugs with a ghost of a playful smile, before turning and looking at the shop. “She is right, you know, we still have to bond a bit.” He turns around, a small smile on his lips, the light playing with the shades of blue, green, and sand of his eyes. “So, mind showing me around before we get down to business?”

Pete nods wordlessly, seeing that at this point there’s not really any point in fighting any of this, not when Patrick, his supposed familiar doesn’t look like he’s going to be leaving any time soon. “Well,” Pete starts, motioning to around the space, “this is the shop. It’s not all that great and just over all random. It’s kind of a mess, so just…like ignore 80% of it…” Pete muttered as he motioned for the familiar to walk around and explore. “You can look and touch, I don’t mind,” he says easily.

Patrick looks at the dark haired witch and gives him a small, easy smile, muttering a quiet “Thank you,” as he looks around, taking in the aroma of calming oils, fresh and dried herbs, and woodsy incense as he wonders through the stop.

The shop itself reminds Patrick of an old apothecary and a vintage candy shop with it’s beautiful wood floors, display cases of precious stones and makeshift charms, old jars labeled in what Patrick can assume is Pete’s messy scrawl and filled with various herbs and plants lined up neatly on a tall shelf behind one of the display cases, an old, but sturdy wooden ladder resting against the shelf,  in the event that perhaps he might need reach some of the taller jars up top.

As he wanders around the shop, he spots a small work station, clearly not used often from the dust that covers the workspace, but he also notices a small scurry bowl, along with a soft cloth that looks like a placemat for tarot readings. 

As if the witch could already read the question on the familiar’s mind, Pete’s quick to answer easily. “I really don’t work on personal stuff down here,” Pete starts, eyes solely on the blonde as his fingers run along the glass of one of the display cases. “I mean, I run the shop and stuff, but my Spell Room is upstairs, along with everything else.”

Patrick nodded. “I figured,” he said easily, not hint of malice in his voice. The room feels warm, much like Pete’s magic, and Patrick is automatically reminded of a fireplace in the winter and the warmth it gives off, but there’s no fireplace, no crackling of wood, no burning embers, instead, Patrick feels the magic radiating off of the trinkets and handmade items that adore the shop, good for sale with positive intentions. “Can you show me your Spell Room?”

Pete looks a bit taken back at the request. “You sure you wanna go up there? I mean, like, it’s totally a mess and I’m not the most organized  person in the world, but like I like mess where it is and—“ he’s quickly cut off when Patrick gives him another leveled look.

“Look, we’re going to be working rather closely together, whether you like it or not,” he starts rather easily, his voice velvet in Pete’s mind, soft, soothing and rich; Pete’s captivated by the sound of it. Pete breaks himself from his trance as he watches Patrick pick up a smooth red jasper stones from one of the basket on the table before watching his lips quirk into a shadow of a smile as he picks up a clear quartz point and rolls it gently between his palms before placing it back in the basket. 

If there’s anything he’s learned from watching his mother with her own familiar is this: if a familiar says so, do it. 

_ ‘Guess I need to start doing just that….’ _

“Okay,” he sighs, causing Patrick to turn around, blue -hazel eyes watching as he walks over to a the front door, stopping right before he reaches it. “Follow me,” Pete smiles, gesturing towards another doorway just to the right of the entrance. Through the door way, a staircase can be seen leading up, something that the familiar had not really noticed until now. “I live right up here.”

Patrick nods as he follows the dark-haired witch up the dark wooden steps until they reach a the landing, and then another door. Pete opens the door to his apartment, revealing a simple living room, old wooden floors that creak gently under their feet. A mismatched sofa and armchair surround a simple looking coffee table in front of the tv, a game controller resting haphazardly on one of the pillows of the sofa while a pizza box decorates the table. There’s a bookshelf in the corner, filled with books of all genres, picture frames and other trinkets, such a a baseball, a rather large salt rock, and a wooden bowl of sorts resting on top. A small kitchen lies adjacent to the living room, equality as simple in style, a stove, a coffee maker, a toaster, a few pots and pans, all clearly hand-me-downs. 

“It’s not much,” Pete says easily as he walks into the space. “But it’s homey for me.” Patrick nods, taking in the warmth of the area, despite there being only a few windows, but he does have to agree with the witch, it does feel homey, if not cozy. “So this room,” Pete starts, leading in him through the living room, “is the Spell room.”

It’s probably one of the smallest room, but the hardwood of the floor and the large window at the end of it makes it look impossibly comforting, despite how much it looks like a tornado has passed through the single room. There’s work desk along the adjacent wall to the window, the wall itself a built in bookcase littered with empty vials, jars of herbs and oils, salts and flowers, roots and bark, but littered between the jars are crystals of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The work desk is littered with papers with messy scrawl covering each page, along with drawings, and water bottles filled with varying shades of water, from crystal clear to rose-tinged pink.

There’s another two more shelves on either side of the room, filled to the brim with books, an abundant of sticky notes with scribbles decorating every neon colored page stick to various places and object around the room, and even more trinkets than before, bowls and jars, potted plants and smooth stones resting along the rich wood. There are wind chimes and what appear to be stained glass mobiles hanging from the ceiling by the window, casting shades of reds, blues, greens, and pinks along the floor, painting the wood with vibrant colors with the help of the sun’s rays. 

Patrick also notices more plants along the room, some barely thriving; other’s brown a wilted, which tells the familiar that Pete clearly needs to work on his gardening skills, as well as eyes a small table basking in the daylight, more water bottles, some even label “sun water” and crystal bathing in the rays that shine through the window.

“Yeah,” Pete starts from behind Patrick, “Like I said, I’m not the most organized person ever, but this is pretty much what you have to look forward too,” he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the doorway leading into his spell room. 

Patrick chuckles as he turns around, facing the darker-haired witch before him. “I can work with disorganization,” he says calmly, hands fitting into the front pockets of his jeans. “So,” he says,the tone of his voice lighter, but colored with seriousness, walking past Pete in the doorway and back into the living room, sitting neatly on the sofa. “Shall we get down to business?”

“ _ Duuude _ ,” he nearly whines, sounding more like a reluctant 8 year old rather than a 30 year old man he’s supposed to be, but screw adulting. There was nothing in the adulting manual that warned him about having to care for a familiar, for fuck sakes. “I’m pretty sure you have the wrong guy…” Pete groans, following the cat, no man, taking in the sight of him on the couch.  _ This isn’t real!  _ His hands come up over his face, palms pressing into his eyes with enough pressure for spots to dance behind closed lids, before they run through his hair, tugging lightly at dark strands as he paces back and forth in this living room while a very human, formerly feline tabby cat, named Patrick sits criss-crossed on his sofa, watching him.

“Actually I don’t you, idiot,,so you can either pace a hole into your nice carpet or you can sit and we can mediate so I can get to know you better,” he says easily, fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater.

Pete stops dead in his tracks and looks over at Patrick. “Look, man. I’m flattered that you’re my familiar, but I’m way too mentally unstable to be responsible for you. I mean, like, I’m going to have to care for you and feed you, not to mention house you, and if you haven’t already noticed I really don’t have the amenities for that!” Pete starts, almost frantic, “Like do I need to get you a bed or a cat bed, or like a fucking litter box—”

Something in Patrick’s eyes flashed suddenly with anger, as he slowly stood up from the sofa, his body going rigid. “I am  **_not_ ** your damn  _ pet _ . That is the last thing I am. I am you’re damn familiar whether you want to accept it or not. I’m here to help you because you have a gift. _ I _ chose  _ you _ .  If anything, I’m here to protect  _ you  _ and to help  _ you. _ ”

Pete looks at him like he’s grown an extra head, puzzled, confused, and just outright ridiculous. “Why the heck did you chose me?!” 

“Look…,” Patrick says, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It's really difficult to explain. It's not like I have an alter-ego or I live in space and then I hitch a ride on a magical rainbow unicorn named Wanda when I decide to pick my charge…” He goes quiet for a minute, scowling at the hem of his sweater, but then when he looks back up his eyes are clearer, more compassionate. “Have you ever had a dream where you remember a few moments crystal-clear, but everything else is hazy? Like a necklace, you remember every fifth pearl but none of the ones in-between? That’s how I remember it--I know I had a choice, I know that I could have gone to someone else, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to be  _ your _ familiar. You were chosen for me, but  _ I _ chose to take you. So just get that through that stupidly thick head of yours and...chill.” He glared half-heartedly before slumping back onto the couch, crossing his arms and huffing like he was exhausted from all the emotion and grumpy that he had to say so much. It made Pete feel warm in places he didn’t know had been cold for a long time.

Pete looks at Patrick, taken back by the amount of fury, energy, and  _ emotion  _ that could come from this one rather small familiar (even in his feline form, he was smaller than an average cat), but at the same time, he knew he couldn’t run from this, that he couldn’t escape from fate, hell, fate took the shape of a tabby cat turned to a rather short, fair haired human that looked to have anger issues, and it was scolding him right where he stood.

“Now, please, let’s just mediate,” Patrick says easily, looking away from the witch, “The both of us have had a long enough day, let’s mediate, and I promise you, I’ll help put your mind at rest.”

Pete cant help but scoff as he walks over the bookcase in the living room, bringing back a plain shallow mahogany scurrying bowl filled halfway with smooth river stones, setting it on the small coffee table. “I highly doubt you can soothe a mind like mine…let me just get the moon water and we’ll get this mediation party started. I’m pretty sure once you get a peek into my mind, you’ll regret every picking me,” he sighed.

Patrick’s expression softens as he sides from this sofa to the floor, sitting across from the bowl, fingers gently running over the stones within the careful fingertips and a small smile. Pete stops and watches for a briefest of moments, watching as Patrick’s pale fingers dance along the river smooth stones, inspected them with care and familiarity, this voice a gentle ocean breeze against his skin as he speaks, almost dreamily, not looking up from the stones lining the bottom of the mahogany bowl, Patrick calling him something he would have never even considered in his life.

“We’ll see about that, Mage.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> As always feel free to leave comments or kudos, or if you want to find me on [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) and yell at me there. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and see you soon!


End file.
